


baby’s first christmas

by neveroffanon



Series: hopes and dreams [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Malcolm and Martin spend a little time together before christmas, Martin’s hallucination about TGiTB still has me thinking about what kind of parents he had
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveroffanon/pseuds/neveroffanon
Summary: “Oh she’s long gone, mom is. Died when I was about your age,” his father sighs and squeezes his shoulder again. Malcolm tries to bite down on the question, he does, but it bubbles up anyway. “How’d she die? Did she give the angel to you before she died?”His father steps around him and drops the ornament down into the box. It lands softly, making something chime as it settles. “That angel,” his father straightens with a groan, “is your mother’s I’m sure. And that’s enough about the dead. Let them lie,” he turns to face Malcolm, voice gone stern.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Series: hopes and dreams [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661428
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	baby’s first christmas

“Dad?” Malcolm stretches up both arms, fingers trying to grasp the ornament and the top of the tree all at once. It’s not going well. He can feel his father behind him, and knows he’s probably grinning, waiting for him to ask for help.

“Yes, Malcolm? Do you need some help my boy?” From the corner of his eye, Malcolm can see his father draw closer. Malcolm jumps, feet clearing the top of the step ladder, pulls down the top of the tree, slams the ceramic angel in place and lands on the ladder’s top step.

He whirls around, takes a look at his father’s surprised face and jumps down to the floor. “Nope! This angel is a lot heavier than the one we usually use though. Where’d you get it from?”

His father leans his head back and laughs, one hand coming to brush through his hair.

“Maybe next time, instead of risking a broken arm, you just ask your dear old dad for help, yeah,” he replies, words coming breathy on the end of his laughter.

Malcolm shrugs, batting his father’s hand away, and darts to the box of ornaments. “Mother says I need to learn how to solve the little problems myself and save you guys for the big ones.” He settles on his knees next to the box and fishes around for the last of the glass spheres.

“Well, that’s...” his father trails off as Malcolm draws up something that is not a glass ball. A wooden disc dangles from Malcolm’s fingers, twisting back and forth on a dingy red ribbon. Etched around the disc is his father’s name in the pretty cursive he can’t seem to master— _Martin Whitly_.

“Is this yours dad? Did mother make it for you?” Malcolm traces the writing with a finger and looks up.

His father is staring, teeth sunk into his lip, at the disc. “Dad, hello?” Malcolm stands and waves a hand in front of his father’s face. After a long silent moment, his father breathes deep and looks at him. He smiles, “Your mother, making something with her own two hands when she could just buy me whatever she pleases? Let’s put on our thinking caps my boy.”

Malcolm shrugs again and bends a look on the disc. “It looks pretty old. Where’d it come from? Why don’t we have it up on the tree?”

“There’s my little genius. You always ask the right questions,” his father plucks the ornament out of his hand and raises it to the light. “No, no. Your mother didn’t make this. Mine did.” He sighs, and drops a hand to squeeze Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Malcolm pauses and peers up at his father’s face. “Is she dead?” he asks, the words coming slowly. He’s never heard his father talk about his mother before. Grandparents aren’t something that they ever really talk about. Nana would only ever invite him and Ainsley to visit her in Vermont. They would never stay long but Grandfather would start to grumble about him asking too many questions and Ainsley talking too loudly. Then Mother would come, they’d have a last supper with only Nana and Mother talking and make the long, long drive back to the city the next morning.

“Oh she’s long gone, mom is. Died when I was about your age,” his father sighs and squeezes his shoulder again. Malcolm tries to bite down on the question, he does, but it bubbles up anyway. “How’d she die? Did she give the angel to you before she died?”

His father steps around him and drops the ornament down into the box. It lands softly, making something chime as it settles. “That angel,” his father straightens with a groan, “is my mother’s I’m sure. And that’s enough about the dead. Let them lie,” he turns to face Malcolm, voice gone stern.

Malcolm nods, watches his father smile brightly, and pick up the step ladder and move off. He calls over his shoulder, “Take the box upstairs to the Christmas closet and go on and get ready for bed. I’ll be there to get you settled in a while.”

Malcolm flicks a look at the tree. Its branches are already drooping under the weight, but there’s a spot near the bottom that has space for one more. Malcolm listens, but his father’s steps have already faded away. He hurries to the box, rifles through it until his fingers snag on the wood and jerks it out. With a running start, he slides over to the tree on socked feet and loops the ribbon around the branch.

It looks nice, spinning there next to the ornaments he and Ainsley have made. Nicer even. Maybe that’s where dad got it from— he was good at art, just like his mother.


End file.
